The Fortress
by any1
Summary: Snape enters Azkaban to interrogate its most infamous prisoner. Dark and gloomy. - Possibly a cookie for a 'Subplot'-Sequel.


The Fortress  
  
He portkeyed to the island in the afternoon as agreed. Thick, grey clouds hung low over the water; the cool breeze of the sea failed to remove the feeling of foul stuffiness that so often permeated the air around the infamous wizard prison. The dark fortress loomed against a sky that threatened to fall on whoever dared to challenge fate, to call upon himself the curse of coming here out of free will.  
  
Snape reminded himself that the unpleasantness of the place - and indeed the place itself - was something created for a specific purpose; the whole isle, consisting of barren volcanic rock, had been moved here by magic, designed to be as unpleasant as possible. Climbing up the steep path to the small, pinnacled fortress, Snape tried to catch one last breath of fresh air. How could the wind manage to bite his very bones, but refuse to bring him refreshment, he wondered. Yet on the island of Azkaban, there was nothing cleansing, nor had anything cheerful survived the moment it had been brought here, the wizard mused. Not that it mattered to him: He had brought no happy thoughts with him, so he had nothing to lose even within the fortress, he decided, shaking his hair one last time in the ill-reeking breeze before entering the gaping hole that was the portal of the prison.  
  
"I greet you, visitor." Lemurus, head of the front guard, had a voice as hollow as any of his kind.  
  
Not many witches and wizards knew that Dementors could actually talk. They did not often use their voices, because although no Dementor's voice would ever have been a comfort to anyone, their ominous and threatening silence usually succeeded in filling humans with even more dread. Dementors liked to drain humans of all positive thoughts and emotions as effectively as possible, Snape contemplated as a slimy, scabbed hand ran along his front to check for charms. Around his neck, an amulet hung from a plain leather cord. The small piece of charmed metal told the creature to let him pass, and to let him out again after he had done his duty. Snape would not say 'after his mission had been accomplished,' because he knew very well that this would not be the case, not that day, not any day. The Dementor's hand groped for more amulets, emitting a low pant of satisfaction, if such word could be applied to a creature of his kind: Snape had come equipped with only one amulet, not two or even more as most visitors would.  
  
If important witches or wizards visited the prison, they were usually equipped with anti-Dementor protective charms. Snape could have gotten one of them for himself: Dumbledore had even offered it to him when he had asked him to undertake this task on that fateful night more than a year ago. Snape had declined. Let Dumbledore believe he was refusing the protection out of pride - in truth he had purposefully decided to expose himself to the Dementors' powers. Never in all these years had he been able to forget that he had come very close to being sentenced to a life sentence at Azkaban. He would have been buried alive in a cell far below the ground, slowly decomposing along with the rest of the guilty. He would have waited for mould to gather on his brain, for dry rot to enter his bones. A lucky accident had prevented this, but the feeling of being lucky had evaporated over the years. He had come to want more of life than just duty or even a bit of respect, forgetting that the hungry mouth of the prison was still waiting, only separated from this particular meal by a narrow strip of the slate-coloured North Sea. And yet, fate had sent him here in the end, not as a prisoner but as an interrogator, as a visitor pretending to stand on the side of the fair and innocent. The first time the slimy breath of the Dementors had grazed his mind, it had reminded him of the place that many considered his due. Well, he was here now, and he would not take a protective charm with him.  
  
The Dementor guarding the portal gave Snape a nod to acknowledge his right to pass. Snape briefly wondered if it was indeed Lemurus, whom he had met on earlier visits - there were few clues which might help a wizard to tell one Dementor from the other. Whatever its name was, the creature opened the inner door to a light-flooded, tiled hallway that led deep down into the volcanic ground.  
  
Most wizards believed Azkaban to be a dark place, but Snape knew otherwise. Light was a much more effective way of torture than darkness: Day and night, the merciless blaze never ceased, never lessened, never gave the prisoners a moment of peace. The light invaded the prisoners' brief hours of sleep, withholding the comfort of oblivion even then. In Azkaban, there were no hiding places, neither for the body nor for the soul.  
  
Snape closed the buttons of his winter cloak with its wool lining. He had carried it over his arm while portkeying here; at Hogwarts, summer was spreading its sickeningly pleasant rays, and cloaks were not needed. In the underground cells of the prison of Azkaban, cloaks did not help much either, as the cold of the dungeons was not of a physical nature. However, it was better than nothing.  
  
Another Dementor, nameless and foul-reeking, opened another door for Snape. He had come to the first cells. Here were the temporary prisoners, those who still could hope to see a velvety black sky spread with stars again - only that they could not feel hope anymore. Some eventually came out to return to their families, Snape knew, while others were sent straight to St. Mungo's ward for the mentally disintegrated. A sentence of two years was usually as good as a death sentence here; if you got less, you might get away with a minor psychosis, but none that were imprisoned here came out unscathed.  
  
"Snape, help me! Help me to get out of here." Snape knew the voice; he did not even turn his head. Behind bars, witches and wizards crouched or lay in their bare, grimy cells, tearing at their hair or scratching open their skin with their fingernails. The wizard calling out after him, one of Gordon Nott's younger brothers, might not even be a follower of Voldemort: As far as Snape knew, he was just one of the fools who had tried to skimp off from Gringotts by means of a magic computer scam, a rather new branch of wizard crime. Of course, the culprits had been caught and sentenced to serve time in the fortress of Azkaban. The financial power of the goblins supported a lobby to be reckoned with; trust the ministry, trust the wizard courts to utterly destroy those who tried to mess with Gringotts.  
  
"Snape, Severus Snape! Stay a while to talk to me. Tell me some news of my daughter, just a word, she was sent to Hogwarts - is she still alive?" Snape closed his ears to the voice of Barbara Bulstrode while he passed her cell without looking at her. He did not even know for which crime she was sent here, or for how long, but knew from experience that once he started talking to the prisoners, insanity lurked around the corner. Half a dozen Dementors were gathering behind him like vultures, waiting to feed on any feelings he might permit himself to have; if he ever overstepped any rule in this prison, they might very well run amok and suck out his soul without further provocation. Snape clutched his wand tightly and quickened his steps. It was bad enough that he had to talk to one prisoner, he thought, closing the door with a thump! to leave the frenzied screams behind him as quickly as possible.  
  
He saw no sense in coming here, but dreaded the alternatives. They would either have to give up, or resort to methods which would make them no better than the Death Eaters they were trying to fight. Dumbledore was against using such methods. He was against it as well, though he could not say why. Was it really a remainder of the worst, the most despicable of his personal weakness, or was it just plain stupidity that let him try the impossible again and again? His sense of futility, he tried to remind himself, was enhanced by the Dementors. That was what they wanted - to suck up the last grain of hope he still had. Yet was there hope? And if so, what could it be but an empty promise?  
  
After another revolting security check by a Dementor called Cerberus, Snape was allowed to descend a spiral stair that led deep down underground. When he opened the door into the next hall, a wave of cold, musty air hit him into the face. At least this hall was much quieter than the first one. These prisoners had long ago given up any hope of re-establishing contact with the world outside, or of ever coming out again themselves. Most had forgotten who they had once been, and what they had been fighting for. Some were quietly blubbering to themselves; others were just staring into nothingness. Wherever their minds had gone, the Dementors would make sure it wasn't a pleasant or peaceful place. While the faces of the prisoners in the first hall looked haunted, those imprisoned here had dead faces. Suicides were rare among those who had been at Azkaban for more than two years; killing yourself essentially meant you had some willpower and energy left, some vague sense of being able to end your own sufferings by your own hand. At times one or two of the prisoners just dropped dead, however, something the Dementors might not even notice for a while. Snape wrinkled his nose: As often, a most sickening stench of decay and rot was in the air. Among the motionless prisoners, Snape saw some faces he recognised from his own days as a Death Eater, though in the mercilessly blazing light they looked more like waxen death masks than like the faces of living witches or wizards.  
  
Before entering the dungeon's high-security wing, there was one more ordeal to be faced: He would be searched by the two guarding Dementors, called Urd and Skuld, if Snape remembered correctly. Of course, names were of little consequence in the fortress of Azkaban: Scabbed, grey hands brushed along Snape's arms, chest and back, trying to find any forbidden item that might help the prisoners locked in there. They searched the pockets of his robes, taking out the potion phials adorned with Braille labels stating their content and purpose. Again and again the hands of the Dementors strayed to his amulet, obviously pleased by the visitor's lack of protective charms. It took all of Snape's strength to remain upright, not to close his eyes and not to throw up during the vile procedure. Slimily cold finger tips ran up his legs under his robes. Snape took a deep breath, inhaling the stench. He told himself that by now, he should have gotten used to the procedure. Finally he was admitted; when he crossed the threshold, he almost stumbled, but caught himself in time.  
  
The high-security wing, colder and brighter than the other parts of the prison if such a thing was possible, contained six cells, all hewn into the volcanic rock of the island and partially covered with broken white tiles. The three cells on the left were empty; one of them had been Black's, Snape knew. To fight down the hatred that burned inside of him now more than ever, he focussed on the task ahead. While passing the silently vegetating figures of Kenneth Murkin and Charles Lestrange, he wondered very briefly whether today's visit would be any different from his past ones, whether his enhanced potions would have more effect on the prisoner than last time. Snape kept his eyes averted until the last moment, looking up at the cell only just before she could see him. The sight of her still hit him in the chest like a blow in spite of all his mental preparation. He always tried to stay calm, unaffected, aloof, but once he faced her, he knew he was on shaky ground.  
  
Dolores Lestrange did not show any visible sign of aging for all the fourteen years she had been imprisoned in Azkaban. Snape had done a little research in genealogy; he knew that she would turn fifty that very year, but her unlined face and hands looked much younger than his. Framed by heavy, black hair and a remarkably well-preserved black robe, her pale complexion shone in the blaze. At the sight of him, a hint of recognition appeared in her inanimate face. "Severus," she whispered. Snape tensed his shoulders to keep himself from shuddering: While Dolores looked as young as ever, her voice, once low and sultry, now sounded broken and ancient, as if she was a hundred years old.  
  
"I've come for the usual reasons," he said, taking out the potion phials. Dolores did not respond. If not triggered by magic, her memory was almost inaccessible even to herself, or so everybody believed: When sentenced to a life service at Azkaban, Dolores had swallowed her wedding ring, a small gold object that must have been charmed to more or less destroy her mind. Thinking about the utter naivety her guards had displayed in 1982, Snape cursed inwardly: If they had only thought of removing this little piece of jewellery, there would be no need for him to come here again and again. A simple Veritaserum would have sufficed to make Dolores Lestrange tell them all she knew - knowledge they needed desperately, as Dumbledore was convinced. Snape in turn needed no convincing; at the headmaster's bidding, he had taken upon him the dreadful task of dealing with Azkaban's most infamous prisoner. He would do everything in his power to make her talk, except torture her, he had sworn. Even when he had come here for the very first time, the night that Voldemort had regained his power, he had doubted his own success. The mind of Dolores Lestrange was a fortress, impenetrable and deserted. Memory and Truth Potions sometimes brought fragments of her former self back to the surface, but the knowledge she had once claimed she held was probably destroyed forever. Of course, they still had to try to wring it from her mind. Snape took a pewter cup from his pocket, poured her a cocktail of different potions and handed her the cup. "Drink," he said.  
  
Dolores Lestrange drained the cup without resisting. If she had struggled, if she had cursed and spit on him, Snape might have found his task easier; her wordless submission seemed nothing but ghastly to him. Try as he might, he would never forget the splendour of the Dolores Lestrange he had once known - Queen of the Death Eaters, they had called her, a title uttered with admiration and dread alike. Many years ago she had been the one in command, the one who had even Lucius, Walden, her brother Evan and of course young Barty at her beck and call. The Queen of the Death Eaters would have found a way to refuse such a potion cocktail even under force, Snape was sure of that. Of course, her submission could also mean that she knew the futility of his undertaking: She would never reveal her secrets to him, whatever bizarre and dangerous potions he would cook up for her.  
  
In the years of her power, Dolores had been a witch with many faces. While he observed her, waiting for the potions to act on her, he wondered which of them would come to the surface this time. Thinking of the one he dreaded most made him feel physically sick. He hoped for a haughty Dolores, commanding him around in her delusion of grandeur. He hoped for Dolores the hyena, baying for blood. Yet, thanks to Murphy's law, the potions turned the witch into the creature Snape feared most in the world, the one he feared more than the Dark Lord, more than death, maybe even more than he feared himself.  
  
"Severus," she breathed, running a smooth, long finger over his sleeved arm. "It is a pleasure to see you here." In her own, cold way, she actually looked pleased, leaving Snape to wonder if the Dementors had any effect on her at all.  
  
"Don't touch me," he hissed. "I've come to question you. What is your name? When and where were you born? Tell me the names of your parents and your siblings." It was a test, of course; he always asked her a couple of questions to which he knew the answers to see how well she reacted to the potions he had given her.  
  
Dolores lowered her heavy lids over her all too familiar grey eyes; she spoke mechanically as if under hypnosis. "My name is Dolores Lestrange, née Rosier. I was born on December the twelfth, nineteen-forty-six, in the Rosier family mansion on Anglesey. My parents were Evanus and Theresa Rosier. I had an elder sister, Rose, and an elder brother, Evan." Her voice faded into nothingness. Then she gave him a sly look. Before he could prevent her, she had pushed up his left sleeve and run a gentle finger over his Dark Mark. The sign reacted to her touch by burning very slightly. Her broken voice sounded altogether differently from the voice she had used to reply to his questions.  
  
"Why do you come here as an interrogator, Severus? You are still one of us, and you always will be. You cannot run away from him, or from me, no matter how hard you try."  
  
She gave him a cat-like smile that painfully reminded him of someone else. Snape violently thrust her finger off his arm, repeating 'I will not harm her, I will not harm her' to himself like a mantra. Before he had known that Dolores Lestrange was the aunt of Hogwarts' current Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, he had not noticed a family resemblance between the two witches. Now it seemed so obvious that he wondered why he hadn't ever made the connection before. They had the same black hair, the same chin, the same eyes and the same way of hiding their emotions by unfathomable smiles. Snape tried to take his mind off these similarities by getting back to business. He would do this by the book, would not put one toe out of line.  
  
"Where are you, and why are you here?" he asked.  
  
"I am in the fortress of Azkaban, imprisoned for life because I participated in torturing and interrogating the Longbottoms to find out the whereabouts of the Dark Lord," she replied without a sign of remorse or pride, without any visible trace of emotions in her ancient voice.  
  
"Who is your husband? Where is he now?" Snape went on.  
  
"His name is Charles Lestrange. He is in there." She idly pointed at the next cell where Charles Lestrange lay on the floor as a motionless heap. If the Dementors' reports could be believed, the wizard had not stirred in years; he was force-fed and kept alive by magic only. Snape bit his thin bottom lip.  
  
"Why did you marry Charles Lestrange?" he suddenly asked. This was not exactly a test question, because he did not know the answer himself.  
  
"I married Charles because the Dark Lord asked me to. I always did his bidding, and one day he will reward me," Dolores said in a low, broken sing- sang. "Charles came from an old wizard family; the Dark Lord was craving a close tie to him. My husband is a weak creature, though, not a fitting tool for the Dark Lord."  
  
Snape averted his eyes for a moment, contemplating this reply. He did not know very much about the Rosier family, but her reply confirmed his suspicion that Voldemort had used the old witch and wizard dynasty in every way he possibly could. Rose Rosier was dead; Evan had died in Voldemort's service, and Dolores abode here, still waiting for her reward, whatever that might be. Only Rose's daughter had somehow escaped the grasping hands of the Dark Lord. Snape made a mental note to re-think this particular thought during some sleepless night spent in this dungeon at Hogwarts to find out whether or not the thought would be pleasant to him then. When he turned back to Dolores, he saw a hint of a spark in her eyes.  
  
"The mark on your arm is not the only mark you bear, Severus. I remember you, and I am sure you remember me," she said in her other voice, the voice that reminded him of the terror he would have liked to forget forever. Snape pried off her fingers which were touching the rough material of his robes a few inches below his navel and jumped back a step, biting back the urge to scream. 'I will not harm her, I will not harm her,' he repeated to himself.  
  
"How many Death Eaters did you have?" he snarled, regretting the utterance the second it left his lips.  
  
"Twenty-six," she said as mechanically as she had replied to his other questions, as if this was no more than a part of the test.  
  
Snape gripped the wand in his robes' pocket until his knuckles hurt. It was time to end this thing, to finish this business before it would get even worse. He wanted to get out of Azkaban, to get out as soon as possible, and never to return.  
  
"Dolores Lestrange, do you know the key to the Dark Lord's immortality? Do you know how it was brought about, and can you tell me how to end it?"  
  
"I cannot tell you," she said softly. "I do not remember."  
  
How resistant could a person be towards Veritaserum? Snape knew that Dolores had altered her own memory, had barred doors in her own mind which no sane person would ever close. During his time as a Death Eater, Snape had witnessed the brutal destruction of people's memories several times, but the thought that someone would mutilate his or her own mind still scared him beyond the boundaries of reason.  
  
"You know about these things," he reminded her. "You once told me. You bragged about it. You said that you were the only one who held this key in her mind. Remember! Tell me now!"  
  
"I do not remember," Dolores repeated calmly, as if she had not heard the command in his voice.  
  
"Tell me about the key, Dolores. What is it, and where is it kept?"  
  
"I do not remember," Dolores insisted, her voice as old as the rock into which her cell had been hewn.  
  
Snape felt fatigue wash over him. He had agreed to question her, to use his knowledge of potions to extract the information even from her barred-up mind. Each time he returned, he brought a combination of potions more powerful and more dangerous than ever, hoping against hope that it might help her remember, that it might force her to tell him what she knew. He could not go on like this much longer. The dose and combination of potions he had given he today went far beyond what was legal or healthy. He might very well kill her with his potions some day without learning her secret. Whatever spell was protecting her, it was stronger than any spell Snape had ever come across; it was certainly stronger than the feeble tie that held Dolores' mind in her body.  
  
Snape turned to leave, closing the door behind him without any word of parting. He forced himself not to look back as he walked down the short hall to knock on the door that would led out of the high-security wing.  
  
"Your place is with us, Severus," Dolores said behind him in a low sing- sang. "Your place is with the Dark Lord, and with us, in the fortress of Azkaban. If they do not leave you out this time, you can always share my cell."  
  
Snape banged both fists against the closed door, feeling panic rise in him. Trust Dolores to know his fears, to know that he was never really sure whether they would really let him leave the wizard prison once he had stepped through the barred doors.  
  
After what seemed an eternity, Urd and Skuld opened and let him out after fingering and re-fingering his visitor's amulet. Snape tried to hide the fact that he was shaking, all the while aware that he was offering the two of them a tasty snack, if not a feast. Both accompanied him to the spiral staircase, obviously reluctant to part with him. Snape shook their cold, slimy fingers of his shoulders, suddenly unsure whether he could ever bear to return to this place without protecting charms. He forced himself to walk slowly even though something in his feet urged him to run towards the exit. 'I will not run, I will not scream,' he repeated to himself. He knew he would soon reach the portal and step into the open, but felt as if he was imprisoned here forever, as if he would never see the sky again.  
  
As he passed the cell of Barbara Bulstrode near the exit, he mumbled as if to himself: "Milicent is doing well at school. At Hogwarts she is safe." While he uttered these words, he could not help wondering why in the world he was silly enough to offer false comfort to a prisoner of Azkaban, a witch who would not even be able to feel any comfort. It seemed that the madness of Azkaban was already destroying his capacity to make reasonable decisions, Snape thought and rushed on and through the next door.  
  
Finally his hands touched the rough wood of the portal. He banged his metal amulet against it. "Leave me out," he croaked. Behind him, a group of Dementors were gathering, aroused with his emotions. Then the door opened a tiny crack. Outside, the air was stuffy, smelling of death and decay. Snape forced the door open with both hands and pushed his body through the narrow gap, wondering whether maybe he was getting too old for doing Dumbledore's dirty work. 


End file.
